MicroHorror

I arrive too late to save the idiot in the suit, who, cowering underneath a cement bench, is attacked by the throng and ripped to shreds. I however yank his screaming girlfriend out of harm’s way with one hand and, with the other, start blasting at the ones coming after us. We turn a corner. Another corner. Jump over a decaying, legless zombie, unable to get at us, but still gnawing at the air. I kick open a door, close it behind us, and we’re momentarily safe.

We sit down across from each other and I notice she’s a pretty blonde and, by the looks of her fancy suit, likely well educated. Though she’s also probably pretty dumb, if you know what I mean. She tries to catch her breath as I rip into her. “You executive types,” I say, her breasts heaving up and down, up and down. “All smart with numbers and investments, but not much brains when it comes to zombies. In case you haven’t heard, Wall Street is on lockdown.”

“I know,” she says.

“Those days are over, honey.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I then take pity on her, tell her it’ll be fine. But I speak too soon as, behind her, from the other room, one with half a face looms over her. I reach out, grab her hand, pull her toward me. Simultaneously, I cock the shotgun, let the sick ghoul have it. The other half of its face flies off in a shower of gore.

She’s on top of me now, trembling, her fingers digging tightly into my arm. I try to push her off, but she clings tighter. “All right, all right,” I relent. Through a small crack in the wall, I can see that night is dawning on New York. “We’ll stay here tonight.”

“Thank you so much, she says, over and over. Her bosom nestles closer.

Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah. The sound of a siren, or worse, goes off. I wake up, disoriented.

“You idiot,” I hear. “You fell asleep on the couch again.” I look up, see her, my stinking wife, and her big ass, shuffling around the kitchen. The blonde is gone. Shit. “So, do you think you might try to get to work on time today?”

I look down in my hand. The shotgun’s also no longer there, replaced by the game controller. Damn, I think, if only. “Yeah, yeah,” I respond begrudgingly.

I get up, go into the bathroom and start the shower thinking of all those repulsive men in suits I work for, the ones without a clue; and of being locked in that cold, dank computer room all day. “The horror, the horror,” I mumble to myself as I pick up the soap…